Finding
by alicerosemalfoy
Summary: The Gryffindor Lioness is not what she once was. She's shrunken into a mere kitten, hardly able to stand up for herself. Will a certain, very slobby,  Slytherin have enough patience to find and fix Hermione Granger?
1. The Crack In Perfection

**Chapter 1**

**The Crack In Perfection  
**

"Here you go." said Hermione, placing Ron's breakfast in front of him. "Baked beans and rashers, just the way you like it."

Ron grunted, leaning over the Quidditch section of the Daily Prophet.

"I might grab some lunch wi-" Hermione started, wiping her hands on her apron; but she was interrupted by her husband's indignant outburst.

"I cannot believe this! Can you believe this?" he cried, slapping the paper.

"Believe what, honey?" Hermione asked, turning back to the dishes. It was hopeless trying to strike up conversation with her husband if it didn't involve Quidditch.

"Sid Roosewick Blagged Ginny at last night's game! That bastard _Blagged_ my sister!"

"That's quite terrible, Ronald." Hermione said, drying off a wine glass. She didn't have the faintest idea what Blagging or who Sid Roosewick was, and if she asked, Ron would either give a two hour speech explaining each one _or_ he would lecture her on having to know better. Either way, it wouldn't be nice.

Ron grumbled and mumbled to himself throughout his breakfast, spraying bits of toast and beans all over the table as he muttered away. Finally he put the paper down and got up. "Right, I'm off to work, love. You take care of yourself now." he said, kissing Hermione quickly on the cheek before leaving the house.

Peace. That feeling you get where you can just lean against a countertop or something and sigh. Just sigh and close your eyes, whatever colour they may be.

And Quiet.

Silence was such a strange thing; it could send chills up your spine or warm the blood in your veins. This sort of silence, Hermione was sure, had been sent by the gods. You get this feeling when _this sort of silence _washes over you and your surroundings. Students may experience _this sort of silence_ after a long and noisy day at school, where your eardrums are pulsating with the last shreds of screechy gossip…until you finally get home and lock yourself in your room, and then it's just you and this saintly silence. Parents would be on very familiar terms with _this sort of silence_. The silence that falls after they have finally managed to shut their spawn up. I know the words seem harsh, but having a baby cry for two hours straight definitely transforms it from a chubby little child to hell's spawn.

And _this sort of silence _brings me back to the feeling of Peace. You see, Peace and Quiet walk hand in hand, no matter what anybody says. I, and Hermione alike, could be wrong. But if you know _this sort of silence _then you have also felt the peace Hermione was feeling at that very moment.

And then Dread came knocking at the door. Not literally of course. Dread settled deeply in her chest at mere the thought of all the things she was expected to accomplish that day. Again, students would know what I'm talking about now. After that short moment of peace and quiet, of freedom…when you realise that you still have a stack of homework to do. Say, bye-bye to all that lovely free time you thought you had. Hermione had said bye-bye a long time ago. She didn't miss it.

No. That was a lie.

But back to my ramblings: Parents work very closely together with that sinking dread. Yup, when that little thing they call a baby starts whining again, and then there's a short little pause and hope builds up in the parent's hearts…and then the screaming starts. Bye-bye quiet evening with a nice glass of read wine, and hello smelly nappies!

But why am I even telling you about students and parents? Hermione hadn't been a student anymore for the better half of ten years. And a parent she most certainly was not, I'm sure she'd have realised if she was. She didn't want children.

No, wait. That was a lie too. Ron didn't want children; said there were enough children in the Weasley clan to go around. He also mentioned something about 'too much hard work' and 'would disrupt the household'. And that was that. No arguing about it. What was said, was said - and those were the rules.

Not that Ron knew much about the running of a household, or hard work. He left Hermione home alone to attend to the long list of daily chores, that _he_ of all people had set together. Now, this list wasn't just long, it wasn't just: dust the shelves, do the shopping and make the beds. Hermione snorted, oh no, her list went on for about a mile, she was sure of it. Her daily tasks ranged from laboriously picking every piece of fuzz from the white carpet, to meticulously shining every last one of his prized Quidditch cups, medals and plaques. Other chores included polishing the cherry wood floor with the most expensive wax on the market (once every two weeks); cleaning every one of the two hundred give-or-take windows of their mansion (three times a week); and making three full meals a day: breakfast lunch and dinner. (Even though he rarely showed up for any of them. But he still expected it to there and waiting for him on the off chance that he did make it home.)

The only task she was _forbidden_ to do was tend to his precious Quidditch equipment. He said that she was far too unskilled to be handling suck expensive and temperamental items. One snapped twig and the broom would have to be replaced. One dent or scuff and it was ruined.

Hermione always wanted to roll her eyes when he mentioned how his Quidditch things were too expensive and sensitive for her to be handling. For Merlin's sake! She spent three hours each day polishing the crystal glasses, and in nearly ten years not one of those had broken.

Now, you may be wondering why the Weasleys don't have a House Elf, and if you weren't then you are now.

It had nothing to do with Hermione's views on their rights and most certainly not for lack of money. No, it was far simpler than that: Ron was of the opinion that owners of House Elves were a lazy bunch.

What a hypocrite.

He figured that if his mother managed to run a household with seven children and hardly any money, then Hermione wouldn't have the slightest problems. But then again he was never home to watch Hermione struggle and never bothered listening to her when she suggested change. Or a House Elf.

Hermione never complained, she'd given up on that years ago. And on the rare occasions when her Gryffindor bravery decided to make an appearance and she suggested that she would like to start her career or maybe just get some help with the workload, he never failed to make the speech about how he worked very hard and she should consider herself lucky that she didn't have seven kids and no money. And that was the end of that discussion then.

Not that it ever was a full discussion anyways, he always won and she knew it.

She wasn't even allowed to use her wand during the tasks. Something about 'cheating' and 'being lazy'.

Ron would know _all _about cheating, but we'll come to that later. First I'd like to draw your attention back to the 'being lazy' part, for I personally find this outrageous.

Ron was the team captain of the Chuddley Cannons. True, in the beginning he had worked hard with them to lead them back to glory. But that was years ago and he'd achieved his goal. They won nearly all of their games; they were rolling in money like pigs in mud. I quite like the description of pigs, I find it suits them very well. The guys used every excuse to go out 'for a few drinks and a laugh'. And I mean _every_ excuse: after meetings, birthdays, holidays, training and matches. That means just about every day of the year. The team had been on the same working schedule for about seven years or something and weren't being challenged anymore; they were being lazy. All they had to do was chuck a few balls around and they were done with their daily practise, and that's when they would get swamped by a bunch of screaming fan girls.

Oh how cruel. What a hard life they had indeed.

Hermione felt sorry for them.

Not.

Hermione sighed, she'd have to start work now or she'd never get everything done by the time Ron got back. But that didn't mean she couldn't rant _while_ she was working.

-S-

"Hey Gin," Hermione spoke through the floo to her sister-in-law, "look, I really can't make it for lunch."

"For Merlin's sake 'Mione," Ginny exclaimed, putting little baby Albus on the floor, "that's the fifth time this month! Is Ronald being a right little git again? I swear the next time I see him I'll pin him to the wall!"

"No no, he's lovely. Honestly. I've just got a lot to do, that's all. Tell Luna I'm sorry, alright? Next time I'll be there, promise." Before she could hear the extent of Ginny's death threats to her brother, Hermione pulled out of the fire and dusted herself off.

She'd have to clean up that soot or Ron would have another go at her.

-S-

Tick-Toc. Tick-Toc. Tick-Toc. The seconds, minutes…hours came and passed on the great grandfather clock looming in the foyer. The long finger chasing the short, or was it the other way round?

Creak. Creak. Creak. Hermione swung forwards and backwards on her old rocking chair, her rhythm steady and constant.

Ding Dong. Eleven o'clock. He should walk in at any second now.

Ding Dong. Midnight. Not surprised, he's late again.

Ding Dong. One o'clock. The party must be good.

Ding Dong. Two o'clock. The front door opened with a bang and Ron's lanky figure staggered in.

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**AN: So? I'm not really sure about this one, so tell me alright? I hope you liked it. *smiles hopefully***


	2. Hear Her Roar

**Chapter 2**

**Hear Her Roar**

Hermione jumped up from her chair, ready to wrap her cashmere blanket around her husband's shoulders. "Evening 'Mione," he slung his long arm around her in greeting, "you have fun today?"

She smiled nervously up at him, "Yes, but I actually meant to have lunch wi-" she started, but Ron interrupted her: "The party was _great_! Rockford passed out so Jimmy and Sam stripped him down and hung him from the beams. It was _hilarious_!" he gurgled excitedly as Hermione led him into their kitchen and sat him down in his usual seat at the head of the table.

"That's really lovely Ronald, yes, lovely." Hermione turned her back to him, leaning against the sink whilst waiting for the kettle to boil. Yes, they owned a kettle. It had been a wedding gift from Mr. Weasley, and Ron always got mortally offended when Hermione didn't use it to save time. She heard her tipsy husband shuffle around and the legs of the chair scrape across the flagged stone floor.

Then she felt his long arms wrap around her waist, his body flush against hers. Her breath hitched and pulse quickened. His fingers traced along the sliver of skin between her jeans and top. She shuddered. His hands slipped under her shirt, sliding across her stomach and slowly moving upwards. He tilted his head down his warm breath skimming across her face, "'Mione."

Her eyes snapped open. The smell of alcohol made her want to retch, but she was used to it. But it was the smell of perfume on him that flicked a switch in her brain. Perfume that wasn't hers.

This was it! This was the last time she was going to put of with this man!

Hermione was sick and tired of Ron commanding her around in _her_ house.

Hermione was sick and tired with him compromising her career, life, friends and family.

Hermione was sick and tired of him coming home at outrageous hours and expecting sex.

Hermione was sick and tired of being the good wife.

This had to end and it was going to end now.

"Stop it Ronald!" Hermione spun around, stepping sideways out of his grasp. "Stop it!"

Ron looked at her, totally confused. No surprise there, he never was the fasted broom in the closet. "'Mione, I thought we could have some fun, you know?" he moved closer to her again.

"No, Ronald, no. I don't know what fun is any more because I haven't had a life since nine years! You just seem to think that I'm some sort of replacement for your mother, but guess what, I'm not! I'm a human being Ronald! A very real being with feelings and emotions! You treat me like some sort of slave of yours, pay no further heed to me like I'm dirt stuck to the bottom of your shoe! The only time I do get the privilege of being acknowledged is when you're horny and completely pissed out of your mind! I am sick of being convenient!"

Ron stared at her like it had just been announced that the Quidditch World Cup had been canncelled until further notice. "But, you never said anything. I had no idea."

"No? I never said anything did I? Oh, Ronald you disgust me. Do you think I don't know that you go off with other, younger, girls? Do you think that's right, just because I never said anything? Do you realise that the reason I never said anything was because I actually believed that our marriage could be saved? I never said anything because I truly believed that you would one day mature and stop acting like a child, and focus on your responsibilities!"

"But...you never said anything."

Hermione thought her mind was going to explode. "I have said _plenty _over the years, but it's you, Ronald, _you_, that never once shut up about your perfect little career long enough to listen to what I had to say to you! All I ever wanted, and worked hard for all those years in school, was a career! But it was you Ronald that time and time again stomped on those aspirations with your hurtful and degrading comments! But you know what Ronald? The time has come for my dreams to be heard, they will not be pushed aside and turned into your own all 'cause you wouldn't listen!"

"But 'Mione, I love you." Ron took another, tentative step towards her, but the glower she sent him made him go straight back.

"You know what? Now I'm done believing you, you don't know what I'm feeling! I'm a good person, I deserve better than you! You treated me like crap, so that I couldn't feel at home in my own home. There was never a comfortable minute in my life since I married you. Camping out with Harry in the middle of fucking nowhere, completely abandoned by you, was more enjoyable and carefree than being a resident in this house because of _you_! All these years, I've tried and tried to say what's on my mind – you should have known, because that's what people do when they love someone: they care for each other!"

Ron's face had gradually been turning redder with every word Hermione screamed at him from across the kitchen. "I did care for you! Look around, you wouldn't have a comfortable bed to sleep in or a nice kitchen to cook in if it weren't for me! I've always kept you safe and warm, what more could you possibly want, Hermione? I think it's you who needs to start listening: you need to stop acting so selfishly!"

"That's rich coming from the person who practically just admitted to valuing material things over love and affection! I'm not a pet Ronald, nor am I your slave! There is someone here in side, someone I thought had died so long ago: Me!" With that, Hermione flew from the kitchen, grabbed her cloak and reached for the front door. But before her fingers could properly close around the doorknob, Ron's strong hand grabbed her arm and pulled her back to him. "Where do you think you're going!"

"Leaving you, leaving this house, leaving this life. That's where I'm going!" Hermione spat, trying to twist out of his firm hold.

"No you're not. You'll stay right here, where I want you." Ron's eyes flashed as he growled at her.

Hermione straightened her back, looking her husband right in the eye, "I'm more than what you made of me. I followed the voice you gave to me, but now I've got to find my own! You should have listened, Ronald, and I'm leaving now whether you like it or not. I have rights!" And with that Hermione twisted herself violently out of his iron grasp, slapped Ron across the cheek for good measure and fled through the door into the night. The last thing she heard as the grand villa slowly shrank behind her, was her husband shouting "BITCH!" from his silhouette in the entrance.

_Where to now?_ She wondered.

* * *

**AN: Hola amigos! Anyone pick up the Beyonce lyrics in Hermione's little outburst? Would be kinda surprised if you didn't :D So, sorry for the short chapter, but I didn't want to make it any longer as there's already a lot of heavy stuff in it. Hope you don't mind :)**

**Don't neglect the reviews peeps!**


	3. Into The Moors

**AN: Wow, it has been AAAGGGEESSS since I last updated! Please don't hex me :) This is only a short chappy, but I actually quite like it...more than the last anyway.**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

**Into The Moors  
**

As Hermione walked randomly through the muddy fields in her night gown and fluffy slippers; occasionally glancing over her shoulder to make sure Ron wasn't hot on her heels with a flaming pitchfork; she went through her list of people that she might find refuge with. After about an hour of debating with herself, she came to an unsettling conclusion: There was nowhere she could really go.

If she went to Harry's, then there would be no avoiding Ron.

If she went to the Burrow, Hermione would have Molly to answer to; which is something she'd rather not face, thinking back to their fourth year when Molly had believed her to be a scarlet woman. What Mrs. Weasley would do to her if she found out that she'd left her youngest son, Hermione would rather not imagine. So, generally, all of the Weasleys were a no-go.

Neville and Hannah had just had their first child, so she didn't feel entirely comfortable intruding on them.

Luna and Rolf were off to Merlin-knows-where, so they were out of the question.

There was no way she'd be going to Seamus and Lavender's, because of, well, Lavender. Enough said.

And those were basically all of her options; for she either didn't know where the others lived, as in the case of Dean and Alicia; or she wasn't close enough to them to expect them to take her, in the case of the unmarried twins Padma an Parvati.

She skidded on the wet grass, and her foot - slipper and all - sloshed into a muddy brown puddle. Great. She kicked off both slippers in disgust and untangled herself from her now dirty and matted dressing gown. Hermione stood barefooted and shivering, clutching her wand tightly in her right hand, in the middle of a field and watched with dismay as dark, haunting clouds slid across the moon overhead. Brilliant.

It started to rain.

Oh how Hermione wished she could sit snugly by the crackling fire with a cup of steaming tea and a nice, well-read book.

Books. That was it. If she were back at Hogwarts (Merlin, it felt like millennia ago, she realised with horror how time had flown by), she would have huddled together in some quiet corner of the library. She bitterly remembered another reason why the library had been her safe haven: Ron never went there. And in that aspect he'd never really changed.

Would he come look for her? Or would a bottle of fire whiskey take, Hermione Weasley's, born a Granger's, place? If it did, then not for very long, as a bottle of fire whiskey couldn't prepare a breakfast, nor a lunch or dinner. She started to walk faster, the smell of old parchment and the quietly rustling sound of turning pages, giving wings to her steps as she made her way to Diagon Alley and it's familiar book store, Flourish and Blotts. After several minutes of slipping and sliding, Hermione stopped abruptly, her breath visible in the cold night air before her. She wasn't really going to _walk_, was she? Hermione looked down at herself. If she hadn't been so stupid and had used her head for two seconds, she thought annoyed, she could have saved herself from being covered in half of the mud and bits of grass. As is was, there wasn't much she could do anymore, and so she turned on the spot and apparated directly into Diagon Alley.

Unfortunately, Diagon Alley's only apparition point was at the intersection with Knockturn Alley. A chill ran down Hermione's spine as she watched the fog swirl unnaturally between the dark shops, every now and then revealing a hunched figure here or dark blob there. Hermione shook herself nervously and, gripping her wand more tightly than before, set off at a brisk pace down Diagon Alley, her bare feet numb from splashing in the icy puddles. Soon enough Hermione's trek through the dark, deserted road came to an end beneath the creaking wooden sign that read: Flourish and Blotts. But it was another sign – the sign in the window – that was like a slap in the face: CLOSED. Of course. It was, after all, only about 3 a.m. Silly Hermione.

So, what now?

Exhausted and absolutely drenched, (for it was raining heavily in London too, as it does), Hermione let herself fall onto the topmost step and leaned her head against the glass pane of the door. Her woollen scarf that she'd gotten from Luna last Christmas, she remembered regrettably, was lying in all its softness in the middle drawer of her wardrobe. Hermione started to wish she hadn't acted so irrationally, and left in such a rush...

A gust of wind blew through Diagon Alley causing the raindrops to pelt Hermione violently like bullets. A ghostly howl made the hairs on her back stand up; and when one of the streetlamps flickered eerily no two feet away she had suppress a whimper.

Hermione slowly raised her head and the blood froze in her veins. Her heart, that had been beating franticly before, nearly came to a complete stand still.

Barely in her eye line, fuzzy from the heavy rain and fog, stood a tall dark shape. As she stared, it started moving towards her. Hermione looked around, there was nobody else to be seen. Suddenly her heart kick-started, and it felt like a caged bird was beating against her ribs. A flash of lightning illuminated the dark purple sky and its angry black clouds, and gave Hermione the chance to see through the heavy sheet of rain and at the tall cloaked figure coming closer.

Closer, and closer the shape came until it was only a few meters away and Hermione could see the fog swirling around the bottom of the dark cloak. She could feel the ear splitting clap of thunder reverberate through her bones, and she huddled closer into the corner – hoping and praying that the figure would pass.

No such luck. The hooded figure took another few steady strides towards her and Hermione flinched back as a bright light flared up inches from her face.

* * *

**AN: And with that little cliffy I leave you until next time...which, I warn you, could be a while because firstly, I haven't even started chapter 4 and secondly, I have exams coming up which means I will make an attempt at studying :/ Ciaoooooooo with a Miaowwwwww!**


	4. A Tall Dark Stranger

**AN: Who is it? Who is it? Oh the mystery... Just kidding, I know you all know who it is. Don't you?**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

**A Tall Dark Stranger**

A shriek of terror was drowned out by the lashing rain and heavy fog.

Hermione shrank – trembling - further into the corner as the bright light to her face was slowly lowered.

A strong hand wrapped around her elbow and dragged her off the ground. Hermione peered up between dripping strands of her hair that clung to her face and eyelashes. She could barely make out the shadowy features from beneath the dark hood drawn over the tall stranger's face.

"You shouldn't be here alone at this hour...it's not safe." The tall dark stranger told her.

Hermione just whimpered and tried tugging her arm out of his firm hold. He didn't loosen his grip, so all Hermione could do was to tremble and whimper some more and try to preserve what was left of her dignity and not burst out in tears and beg for her life to be spared – which is what she really, _really_ wanted to do.

She heard the man sigh, as if this was a daily occurrence to him, and watched him as he pushed the hood from his face with his spare hand.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Hermione - on seeing his face in the shadowy lamplight – had violently twisted out of his grip with a shriek, jumped back and stood there in a puddle poised, like a Lioness before a leap with her wand pointed right at the man's chest.

The tall man raised his hands calmly, "Madam, please lower your wand. I mean no harm –"

"No harm, my arse!" Hermione shrieked back, not lowering her wand for an instance.

"Madam, you are disoriented and distressed –" he started, but was – again – interrupted by Hermione.

"Well I wonder why that is?" she scoffed, jabbing her wand at him some more, "I'm being kidnapped by a rogue Death Eater!"

"Now listen," he said in a stern voice, "I'm not a Death Eater. I'm –"

"Oh, yeah, _sure_ you aren't!" Hermione's voice was dripping with sarcasm, but her mind was screaming at her to run for the hills. "Do I look like a bloody two year old to you, _Zabini_?" she continued, hoping that help would show up sooner or later. "Your lot has had their hands covered in the Darks Arts filth enough for ten lifetimes – I would know!"

"What the-? How do you know who I am?" the cloaked man asked, before adding on quickly, "And I'm _not_ a Death Eater! – I'm an Auror, and a bloody good one at that!"

"You are NOT an Auror!" Hermione basically screamed at the guy, "Harry would have told me if he had a Death Eater working for him – or Ex-Death Eater, or whatever! Point is, you're trying to kill me! Well guess what honey, not tonight!"

"Wait, Potter? What? No, I'm not trying to kill you! Wait, a-are – _Granger_?"

"No shit, Sherlock!" Hermione said, flourishing her wand around in front of herself to keep him from coming any closer. "I still don't believe you. There's no way _you're_ an Auror."

Zabini ran a hand through his wet hair, letting droplets fly out around him. "Seriously Granger, do you want me to call Potter here so he can write you a book about it?"

Hermione huffed indignantly before practically collapsing in a sobbing heap. This caught him by such surprise that he didn't react fast enough so as to catch her mid-fall, so Hermione hit the wet ground full-force with her knees. Blaise didn't really know what to do; he could deal with anything from rowdy Quidditch fans to maniacal banshees, but women's over-loaded emotions – not so much. He took a tentative step towards the rocking, madly sobbing woman in the puddle of grey rain water before him. Was this normal? Did all women freak out and decide to lie, crying, in the lashing rain? "Um, Granger? Are...are you, um, alright?" No response. Just sobbing. "Granger? Are you alright? Do you want me to take you back home?" he said very slowly as if talking to an infant.

"NO!" Hermione shrieked curling into an even tighter ball; the wetness of the puddle seemingly not bothering her in the slightest anymore. Blaise wasn't really surprised by this at all; he'd discovered many years before during a particularly rainy Quidditch practise that the point came when you couldn't get any wetter.

Another clap of thunder made the very air around them shake, startling Blaise back to reality. His would-be water resistant cloak was soaked through and weighed about a tonne and his eyesight was beginning to go all blurry and unfocused due to the vast amount of freezing raindrops pelting his sensitive eyeballs.

Blaise was not in the mood for this. He was wet and tired and cold...and his eyeballs were on fire. Not literally, of course. Obviously. He sighed heavily, bending down to the blubbering mess in the puddle and scooped her up in his arms. "Come on, Granger. Let's go home."

The woman in his arms didn't even have the strength to fight against him or struggle as he Apparated them both into a dingy little alleyway in West London. Blaise figured he'd let her stay at his place for just one night; you know, so she could get herself sorted out or whatever. He lived just around the corner, but preferred Apparating to and from the alleyway because it smelled like piss and people generally avoided it.

As he turned into his road, Blaise couldn't help but wonder what had happened to feisty, brave Granger to cause her to find refuge at a storefront at 3 a.m. on a night like this. He pushed back the wave of images of possible scenarios that tried to swamp his brain. No, he told himself, he would not be making any judgements. When he finally came to a stop before his light blue front door, he swore quietly under his breath. He needed his wand to get in, but he couldn't reach it as he'd stuffed it somewhere between the many folds of his robes. He didn't want to put Granger down; who knew what she'd do considering the absolutely mental state she was in.

A bolt of lightning illuminated the foreboding sky and a black cat ran hissing across the road to hide under a muggle car. Blaise sighed irritably, why had he ever thought it a good idea to bring Granger home with him? Even if it was just for a night. Damn that part of his brain that controls spur of the moment decisions. He'd have to get that door open with wandless magic – something Blaise had never been good at.

As the rain pelted them like rubber bullets, Blaise stood there with a whimpering Hermione in his arms and a somewhat constipated look on his face – trying to push the spell out through some sort of tangle of psychic brain waves. To his utter surprise the door sprang open after only a few minutes; he'd never really expected anything to happen, to be honest. Nevertheless, he somehow managed to squeeze himself and Hermione through the narrow doorframe.

Now what?

After kicking the door closed behind him, Blaise stood awkwardly dripping in the living room. His house, if you could call it that, wasn't grand by any stretch of the imagination: There was only one en-suite bedroom, a fairly large living room, another bathroom and a kitchen with a breakfast bar. He glanced down at the drenched woman in his arms and was rather amazed to find that she'd managed to fall asleep, all huddled up against his chest. Blaise scowled slightly. He supposed he'd have to let her sleep in his bed now. Great.

After a hard day's work and getting absolutely drenched, he'd been looking forward to snuggling under his nice warm duvet covers. Well, that wasn't going to happen now, was it? As he backed into his room he once again cursed his spur of the moment decisions; he really should have thought this through a bit better.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, he lay her down on top of his nice silken duvet. (He groaned internally as he thought of what the water would do to them.) Blaise looked around the room, not really sure of what to do with himself now. He hastily gathered up a week's worth of dirty, smelly clothing that littered his room and stuffed it all into the empty laundry basket. He figured she wouldn't appreciate waking up next to last Wednesday's boxers.

Blaise didn't think Hermione looked at all comfortable with her sopping nightgown clinging to hr pale skin, but didn't dare try to peel it off her in case she woke; _then_ he'd have some explaining to do. No, so instead he crept back into the living room, grabbed a dark green blanket that was dumped on the end of the couch, crept back into the bedroom and gently covered her with it. He tip-toed over to the dresser and pulled out a set of clothes for himself and some pyjama bottoms; then he stopped to think for a moment and pulled out one of his old shirts and a pair of boxers and laid them at the foot of the bed.

Blaise crept back into the living room, cringing as the hinge on the door creaked as he closed it behind him. He swiftly stripped out of his soaking robes, leaving them in a heap in the middle of the room, and pulled on his silk pyjama bottoms. He shuffled through his desk drawers, looking for a half-decent piece of parchment, a quill and some ink that wasn't dried up whilst rubbing his dark locks with a fluffy towel he'd snatched from the bathroom floor. Once he'd gathered up the necessary equipment he crouched down on the ground and scribbled a hasty note:

_D-_

_Emergency. Get here._

_-B_

He figured it would have to do and gave the note to his owl, Bob. Bob flew silently off into the night. Blaise turned around and faced his couch. It was a very nice couch, but there was no way in hell he was going to sleep on it. Ever. He didn't think creeping into his own bed with Granger still in it was worth risking his life, so he dug around in the pile of wet robes until he retrieved his wand; and with a swift flourish the couch transfigured into a king's size four-poster with lavish silk sheets and Diricawl feather pillows.

Ah, just the way he liked it.

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**AN: I'm sorry that I kind of fell off the face of the earth there for a while, but I was travelling quite a bit and suffering from PHPD (Post Harry Potter Depression), which definitely restricted my ability to write anything of any quality. Oh, and I've also been waiting with bated breath for my Pottermore e-mail to arrive! It STILL hasn't found its way to me. ARRGGGGG! Errol really should be retired. **

**So maybe you could cheer me up with a weenie, little, **_**tiny**_** review? Pretty please? **


	5. Involving The Blonde

**AN: Wait – what's this? Another Chapter? Within two days? I think I just outdid myself.**

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**Chapter 5**

**Involving the Blonde**

It was rather early the next day, when the modest fireplace burst into a thousand green flames and quite a ruffled looking young man stumbled out, a string of unprintable curses tumbling from his mouth.

"Merlin, Draco, get your mouth out of the sewer. What would your mother say!" Blaise hissed over the breakfast bar, mopping up the coffee he'd spilled upon his friend's hasty and unexpected arrival.

Draco Malfoy just rolled his eyes, "She'd be shocked that I'm out of bed this early."

Blaise pulled a face at his too-hot coffee that had burned his tongue. "What the hell are you even doing here at this hour in the morning – it's not even noon!"

Draco strolled into the kitchen and peered into the cookie jar, "You said it was an emergency! You know," he added, sticking his arm into the jar and feeling around for his favourite chocolate caramel biscuit, "I'm not a complete sloth – I do actually come when it's something serious."

Blaise raised an eyebrow over his coffee mug, "You didn't come after Juliet broke up with me and I needed you! How was that not an emergency?"

"Meh," Draco, finally having retrieved a cookie, shrugged as he nibbled at it. "You guys were _so_ not meant to be together. We all had bets riding on how long you'd last."

"WHAT!" Blaise all but shrieked, "How am I the only person nobody told?"

"Told about what?" Came a drowsy voice from the bedroom door.

Draco's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets as he raised both of his pale eyebrows to his hairline. Blaise was about to say something, but Draco had already grasped his elbow and was dragging him into the bathroom. As he slammed and locked the door behind them he glared at his best friend. "That – _she's_ your problem! You drag me out of bed at this ungodly hour because you slept with Granger!"

"Drake," Blaise said slowly, trying to shift, because being backed up to the sink by your male friend is not the most comfortable of positions. "it's not what it looks like."

"That's what they all say." Draco pointed out flatly.

Just then there was a knock on the bathroom door. "Um, Blaise..." came Hermione's timid voice, "...about last night..." This, of course, caused Draco to again raise his eyebrows accusingly at his friend. How was he going to talk himself out of this now, eh?

"Ah, um, Granger," Blaise shouted out over Draco's shoulder, "could you, I don't know, go...make us some tea? Please."

They heard her shuffling away outside.

"Explain. Now." Draco demanded.

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"This is not normal." Draco, leaning with his elbows on the breakfast bar, whispered to Blaise who was next to him sipping on his third cup of tea. It had been an hour since Draco's arrival and after Blaise had explained the whole Granger-incident they'd come out of the tiny bathroom to find Hermione attempting the unthinkable: cleaning up Blaise's living room. So now they were watching her bustle about from the safety of the kitchen, not really sure what to do with her. She acted like they weren't even there as she went about her business.

"I think she's maybe gone a bit mental..." Blaise whispered back after a while, his light eyes never leaving her kneeling body as she plucked the little fuzzy bits off his brownish carpet thing.

Draco took a bite out of his jam sandwich and glanced at his friend, "Do you think we should, I don't know, refer her to St. Mungo's or something? She seems like she's lost in her own mind or something..."

"Nah, I don't think she's that cracked. Maybe she's just OCD?"

Draco snorted, "OCD? Are you kidding me? Look at her!" he jabbed what was left of his sandwich in Hermione's direction. "There's totally something not right with her!"

Blaise sighed, Draco was right. Hermione was mumbling quietly to herself, rocking on the balls of her feet – plucking at the fuzzy bits in a steady rhythm. Occasionally she'd give a little shudder or look up with a terrified look in her eyes.

Not for the first time he wondered what had happened in roughly ten years to cause such a transformation in her. Blaise had never been fond of Granger in their school days; she'd been a bossy know-it-all; but he had admired her bravery, even if it was a bit reckless. But now it seemed as if everything of her former self had been squashed out. A fire doused by wet sand.

He'd never thought it possible, not after the admittedly awful way they'd all treated her during school and yet she'd still stayed strong.

It was slightly disconcerting seeing her like this. Broken.

And yet, he couldn't help but think that somewhere buried deep under whatever issues she had, the Gryffindor Lioness was lying dormant, just waiting to be woken up. He'd caught a glimpse of that old fire the previous night in Diagon Alley when she'd so viciously attacked him.

Right then and there, Blaise Zabini, made it his mission to find and fix the Gryffindor Lioness as he sipped thoughtfully at his Earl Grey.

Draco's voice roused him from his reverie, "You should maybe take her back home soon, or you'll have Potter and the Weasels blasting down your front door."

"...They don't know she's with me." Blaise pointed out, "But I suppose you're right; Potter would have my head and my job if he found out that I took her in."

"Kidnapped her. Technically you kidnapped her." Draco stated.

"Yeah, well, either way she'll have to go back. You don't know by any chance where she and the Weasel live?"

Blaise knew that Granger was technically a Weasel too – nobody could have missed the marriage, it was publicised all over the Wizarding World and not only the British one. The only marriage that was possibly more famous than hers to the Weasel was that of the Weaselette to Potter. But that wasn't really surprising, was it?

"Ummm..." Draco hummed for a few seconds, a little crease forming between his pale eyebrows. Blaise had known him long enough to know that that meant that Draco was actually thinking about the question. "Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, that's all I know. In some huge villa that the Weasel bought a few years back; I remember 'cause it was all over the front page of the _Daily Prophet_: **'Quidditch Legend and One Third of The Golden Trio, Ron Weasley, splashes the cash on 5 Million Galleon Villa. For more, turn to page 13.' **You really couldn't miss it." Draco said flatly.

"Could you by any chance pop by the Ministry and find out? I'm not keen on leaving her here on her own, you know, I might come back and find my house in an irreparably clean state." Blaise said, putting his nearly-empty mug on a stack of filthy plates by the sink.

"Wait. Just so I get this right: You hall me out of bed at an unthinkable hour in the morning because you kidnapped missy know-it-all who should be a mental patient in St. Mungo's and now you want me to just 'pop by the Ministry' to inconspicuously ask for her address. What have you done with my best mate Blaise?"

"C'mon Drake, stop being such a drama queen and make yourself useful for once in your life."

"I feel insulted." Draco grumbled. Nevertheless, he stepped over Granger (still kneeling on the round) and into the fireplace.

With a whoosh of green flames the blonde was gone again.

Blaise sighed, tugging at the hem of his tight black t-shit before walking over to the woman on his floor. He stood next to her for a few seconds, then decided to crouch down. "Granger?" he touched her shoulder lightly.

She was wearing his shirt and boxers that he'd put out for her last night, and Blaise couldn't help but smile at the sight of her nearly drowning in them. She seemed so small, so petite. He'd remembered her taller and, well, sort of bigger; but not in fat way.

She twitched under his touch, her big brown doe eyes looking up at him. "Sorry, would you like me to start on the windows now?" she asked, thoughtfully stroking the brown carpet under her, which was now fuzz-thing free, Blaise observed.

"Eh, no, Granger. No, you don't have to do the windows. I'm just letting you know that I'll be taking you home as soon as Draco comes back, okay?"

Hermione's eyes practically welled with glistening tears and her bottom lip started trembling. She wrapped her arms around herself in a protective manner, fear rattling her breath.

"Oh, eh, don't cry start crying on me now, please, Granger." Blaise awkwardly patted her back, completely flustered with the situation.

Just then, the fireplace erupted again and Draco stepped back into the room, shaking dark ash from his platinum hair. "Got it!" he waved a small piece of parchment around. "I swear to Merlin, Blaise, the _looks_ they gave me when I asked. You'd think –"

But Blaise interrupted his friend's ramblings, "Change of plan, mate. I'm not letting her go. Not before we've figured out what's going on here."

"We?" Draco asked, "Listen, _mate_, I never signed up for anything."

"We'll I'm not letting her go before that, so you might as well help me."

"Wait, so I just possibly tarnished my good reputation and will be at the centre of the Ministry's rumour mill for _nothing_?"

"Um, yeah."

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**AN: So thanks for all the lovely reviews you guys wrote, it really spurred me on! That and the fact that I'm generally on a creativity high at the moment. It's like a whole herd of plot bunnies is grazing away in my mental garden! 'Tis a wonderful feeling, indeed. Although I don't expect Chapter 6 to be up anytime soon; I haven't even started it yet and school starts in a week again and I have a shitload of summer work still to do. Ugh. But yeah, don't let that distract you from reviewing! **


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